


Become

by illwick



Series: In Between [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Season/Series 04, Top John Watson, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9386795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: They've always been there.  They always will.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELL, after S4, this is now just a big ol' fix-it for the entire show. As with the rest of this series, everything written here could be considered canon-compliant, as it doesn't contradict anything that was portrayed on screen.
> 
> I'd strongly recommend that you read the other installments of this "In Between" series prior to reading Part 7. Certain call-outs and events (especially in this installment) only make sense in the context of the canon as I've established it up until this point. S4 spoilers, obviously, will follow.

I. Greg

They finally meet for drinks. It's been ages, but Greg had refused to let it go.

He'd fucked up the first time, when Sherlock died. He'd felt paralyzed with guilt and had avoided John like the plague. Looking back now, it makes his stomach roil with shame. After all that John was undoubtedly going through at that time, Greg just...let himself off the hook. At the funeral, after the funeral... God, he hadn't reached out until nearly two years afterwards, and that was just to drop off the box of Sherlock's belongings.

So when he heard of Mary's death, Greg was devastated, of course. But he vowed that it wouldn't be like last time.

So he called and left a voicemail. An honest-to-God voicemail, complete with, "Call me if there's anything I can do." At the funeral, he shook John's hand and offered his condolences looking him squarely in the eye, and reminded John to call as soon as he was ready.

The week after the funeral, Greg texted John. "Drinks this week? Name the time and place."

He didn't receive a response, though he wasn't expecting one. Instead, he set up a calendar reminder on his phone. Every Sunday at 8pm, he texted John Watson: "Drinks this week? Name the time and place."

He still saw John in a professional capacity, of course. Greg was in and out of Baker Street on a regular basis. Not only that, but he was the one to interview John after the incident with Culverton Smith in the hospital. He was the one on the scene after the whole horrifying affair at the Holmes family estate. John was friendly and courteous during every one of these encounters, but he didn't mention the texts.

It had been a month after the Sherrinford Incident when Greg's phone pings on a Sunday night. 

_Allsop Arms? Tuesday at 7? JW_

Greg smiles.

_See you there. GL_

He notes that's the pub they frequented together before Sherlock's death. It was off the same tube line that Greg took home, and the location made it easy for John to pop out for a pint on nights that he and Sherlock weren't immersed in a case. 

He wonders if that means John's not living in Watford anymore.

Tuesday night finds Greg holed up in their usual booth, stomach twisted in what feels like nervous anticipation. There was so much he'd wanted to say to John over the past few years, yet now John was saddled with yet another insurmountable loss--was Greg supposed to chat with him about rugby and telly and Yard gossip like they had back in the old days, with the cloud of Mary's departure hovering over them, or was he supposed to bring it up and legitimately ask John how he was doing? And if he did, how the hell was John supposed to respond? He starts to question whether his tenacity was such a good thing after all...

But before he can work himself up even more, he sees John stride through the door of the pub, and catches his eyes with a smile. They greet each other with a warm handshake, and Greg offers to buy the first round. John accepts.

When they're finally both seated in the booth, Greg fidgets with his pint glass nervously. What in God's name is he supposed to say?

In what Greg can only assume is an act of mercy, John speaks first. "I'm glad you texted. I haven't had a night out with actual adult conversation in as long as I can remember. You'll have to excuse me if I start speaking in rhyme or randomly naming colors or discussing the latest episode of Tellytubbies--I'm starting to understand what people are talking about when they mention Baby Brain."

Greg laughs. "So who's taking care of Rosie tonight?"

John smiles. "She's with Sherlock."

"Christ, alone? You sure he's not going to turn her into some sort of experiment?"

"Oh, without a doubt, but at this point it seems a small sacrifice to make to save my own sanity."

"So...that's going well, then? With Sherlock?" He doesn't want to put too fine a point on it, but since John brought it up...

"Well, when I left he was attempting to teach her the Krebs Cycle using Duplo Blocks. Seems a bit advanced for 9 months, but who am I to judge?" He shrugs.

Greg barks out a laugh, and John smiles back. "So did you see the match on Sunday?" John asks.

So that's how it's going to be. Greg feels himself relax as they ease back into their familiar steady banter.

Two hours later, John checks his watch. "I should be getting back." 

And now it's finally the moment of truth. Greg knows what he wants to say--what he _needs_ to say. He's run it over and over in his head since that day two weeks after John's wedding, when John called him and begged him to check on Sherlock. Two simple words: _I know._

_I know that you and Sherlock were more than just friends. I know that when you lost him, you lost your partner, not your colleague. I know that you must have had your reasons for hiding it from us, but mate, trust me, those who care about you wouldn't have given two shits who you sleep with at night--only that we could support you in your agony, in your grief. We would have been there for you._

He'd wanted to say it, rehearsed it time and time again. 

He'd come close, after Sherlock's attack on Culverton Smith. John had been sitting across from Greg in the interrogation room, having recounted his side of the story when, out of nowhere, John spoke in a soft monotone, as if in disbelief. "I really hit him, Greg. Hit him hard."

God, he'd wanted to tell him then, tell him that he knew why John's horror at his own actions was infinitely more profound than that of a friend who'd finally lost his temper with a mate, a schoolyard beatdown over past transgressions, boys being boys. What had happened in that morgue--though John had undoubtedly saved Smith's life--what had happened there between John and Sherlock, in light of their past relationship, was a dark and twisted thing. It wasn't okay.

But he'd chickened out. He'd clapped John on the shoulder and told him no one could blame him.

He'd had a hard time sleeping that night.

So tonight, it's going to be different.

But just like before, he feels his throat close up and his tongue get tied. He searches for the words, but none seem quite right. He realizes he probably looks like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing futilely as he struggles to finally speak out. John gives him a strange look.

Except this time, Greg's brought backup. Just in case. He reaches into his bag, and pulls out a book.

_London A to Z._

He places it on the table and pushes it over to John, searching his face for signs of recognition. John looks predictably flummoxed.

"What's that?"

"I borrowed this from Sherlock. Ages ago, right after your honeymoon with Mary, when I went to check on him. Kept meaning to return it, but always forgot."

"Um, alright?"

"Thought you might want to read it."

"Isn't it just...for tourists or whatever? I guess we did use it to decode that cypher once, but I'm pretty sure that was a one-off."

"Be that as it may, you really should have a look through it sometime. Makes sense of a lot of things. Real enlightening."

John furrows his brow more deeply, clearly under the impression that Greg's off his rocker.

"Sure thing, I'll...uh, have a look."

"Cheers."

They part with another handshake, and Greg watches John as he ambles off in the direction of Baker Street.

And for the first time in a long time, he feels like it's going to be okay. It may not be perfect--God knows it was a clusterfuck of the most epic proportions-- but maybe, just maybe, all it took was a few good men deciding to finally grow the fuck up and do the right thing.

Of course, he hadn't really _said it_ aloud. He hadn't looked John in the eye and said, "I know you and Sherlock were lovers and for all I know you might be again, but you need to stop hiding it because we all care too much about you to let it slide this time." No. He hadn't had the balls to say that.

But he was taking a step, a step towards honesty, a step towards recognition, and if he was extremely lucky, John would see it for what it was and meet him halfway.

It wasn't over, surely. But at least it was a start.


	2. Chapter 2

II. Sherlock

Sherlock thought he had known when their last kiss would be. As the game with Moriarty reached its inevitable end, he'd kissed John one last time that night on Baker Street in the winter of 2012, just before Lestrade and his henchmen arrived to arrest him. He'd given himself that one last indulgence, a souvenir of another life once lived in another time, another place.

He'd kept that memory safe and guarded in a quiet corner of the John Watson wing of his Mind Palace. He'd recall the time and date and place and the way the dust mites hung in the air and the exact trajectory of the beam from the streetlight shining outside their flat. He'd clutch that memory like a shield in moments of distress, and in moments of tedium, he'd run his fingers over the jagged edges until they were smooth and worn and comforting. He'd made his peace.

That would be their last kiss.

But instead, it was their _first last_ kiss.

Their _last first_ kiss comes as a surprise. It's 8:47 on a Wednesday night, the night they finally finish hanging the wallpaper in the refurbished sitting room of 221B. Well, more specifically, the paid professionals had finished hanging the wallpaper. John had primarily overseen the operation while Sherlock sat in his chair and answered texts, oblivious.

They'd had carry-out for dinner from their favorite Indian place down the street, and then spent a quiet hour together, John reading the paper and Sherlock composing. Finally, John had stood and packed up his things, preparing to depart and pick up Rosie at the Stamfords'. But as he made his way towards the door he stopped in front of Sherlock, leaned in, and kissed him.

"Goodnight," he smiled up at Sherlock.

"'Night," Sherlock replied, and watched as John retreated out the door and down the stairs. 

Sherlock stood motionless by the window for a long time afterwards, fingers tracing over his lips as though attempting to recall a dream that threatened to slip away at the surface of wakefulness. But it hadn't been a dream, no, it had been real, it had been all too real and unlike anything he'd ever experienced before.

Because he and John had kissed before. All those years ago, before the Fall, they'd kissed and fucked and fought and forgave, but nothing had ever felt as intimate as this new kiss. And Sherlock realizes that it's the first time in his life that a kiss was just a kiss. Not foreplay, a prelude to teeth and tongues and surrender and frantic release, but just a sign of affection, innocent and unassuming.

He can't wait to try it again.

And luckily, John seems to have no qualms about it. The goodnight kiss becomes standard each night as he takes his leave. Not only that, but there's more--the brush of his hand against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock reassembles his music collection, fingers through Sherlock's hair when Sherlock huffs exasperated sighs at a particularly complex case, a peck on the cheek as John clears away plates of carry-out on an idle Sunday evening.

It's never sexual. But it's warm and affectionate and home in a way that Sherlock never thought he'd have again.

It's four weeks after their _lastfirst_ kiss that it all comes to a head. John was over later than usual, having just helped Sherlock wrap up the case of the Dancing Men. He was updating his blog, Sherlock was composing, and Rosie was making vague cooing noises from her playpen in the corner. 

John's labored typing ground to a halt, and Sherlock paused in his music, anticipating John had something to say.

"My lease in Watford is up at the end of the month."

And there it is. 

In that moment, Sherlock wants nothing more than to deflect. He wants to dance around John's proclamation with vague, coded suggestions that he should move closer to the city, what with work and Rosie and the cases and all. He wants to defer judgement until he can suss out what John's thinking, what he expects, what Sherlock can be confident in offering without showing his hand.

But then he remembers the look on Mary's face as she was dying, soft in the dim blue glow of the aquarium. _In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend._

Mary didn't die so that he could stand here like a coward, tongue-tied in his own sitting room, trapped under the heavy weight of words unspoken, as he'd spent so many years. Mary died so that they could be greater together than they were apart. _I know what you could become._

So Sherlock squares his shoulders and meets John's eyes. He takes a deep breath, and speaks.

"We could turn the spare bedroom into a nursery."

And now it is all laid bare. There's no more parsing of words, no more vague insinuations, no more room left for interpretation. 

In their time together, John has beaten him. John has fucked him. John has looked into his eyes and turned him inside out. But this is the first time Sherlock has ever truly felt naked in front of John. There's no more armor left.

John blinks once or twice in surprise. Then a slow smile creeps across his face. "Fresh coat of paint and some new curtains, maybe? I think it'd be quite perfect."

Their goodnight kiss lasts a little longer that night. It's not full of heat and desire, no, not yet. But it's not just an act. It's a promise.

They decorate the nursery alone. They'd had help with the reconstruction of the rest of the flat, from a hired crew and from Mrs. Hudson, and even from Molly and the Stamfords on occasion. But the idea of the nursery still feels fragile, fledgling, a dream not quite fully formed and ready to take flight.

So Sherlock shirks his steam-pressed suit in favor of his hole-riddled grey sweatpants and worn hoodie, and John shows up toting four cans of paint, wearing faded blue jeans and an old Army t-shirt and a smile from ear to ear. They make quick work of John's old bed, disassembling it and carting it down the stairs, leaving it leaning against the bins out back. They throw down tarps on the floor and argue about a battle plan. 

Sherlock groans and shakes his head as John belts along tunelessly with the oldies that play on the rickety radio they've set up on the window pane. John laughs as he pulls flecks of periwinkle paint out of Sherlock's curls. By the end of the day, the room is painted, the window cleaned, the floor swept. The stage is set for a new chapter.

They kiss for a long time on the landing after John packs up to leave. They don't exchange many words; there doesn't seem to be much left to say. Finally, John pulls away.

"I've rented a van for Saturday. To bring the crib, and the rest of my things...you know. There's not much."

"You always did travel light." Sherlock tries to warm the moment with a smile, but he fears it comes off as melancholy as he feels.

But John just smiles up at him. "I'll see you Saturday, then. Bright and early."

"I'll be waiting."

Friday night, Sherlock can't sleep.

For some horrible reason, the anticipation of tomorrow conjures up a memory of another Friday night, in Uni. 

Seb always went out with his friends every Friday night, for a bonfire in the woods at a secret location just outside the school grounds. He never invited Sherlock.

"You wouldn't want to come anyway, you're not missing anything. Just a bunch of dumb jocks getting wasted. You hate that sort of thing."

Sherlock always agreed, though he'd never had much opportunity to even _try_ that sort of thing, to see if he'd like it or not. So every Friday night Seb would disappear across the playing fields with his motley crew of imbecile friends as Sherlock watched from the window of his dormitory. Some Friday nights Seb would stagger back to Sherlock's room, two sheets to the wind, and beg Sherlock to get him off. He'd reek of liquor and whisper vulgar things in Sherlock's ear and push him to his knees without so much as a kiss.

Most Friday nights, Sherlock spent alone. He'd see Seb at breakfast the next morning.

One Friday morning after their history lecture, they'd taken things a bit further than usual, and were lying naked in Sherlock's bed, sweaty and spent. Seb looked at the time and swore. "I'm supposed to meet Drew in ten minutes, we're picking up supplies for tonight."

"Tonight?" Sherlock asked.

"It's Friday, 'member?"

"Oh, right, of course. I...I'm free tonight, actually."

Seb stared at him blankly.

"I mean...I could go with you. You know. To the bonfire. If you wanted. I'll behave. No deducing, promise."

Seb tried hard to wipe the gobsmacked look off his face. "Oh! Um, sure, okay. I'll...I'll come by and pick you up at 8?"

"Okay."

So Seb departed without fanfare, and Sherlock set about making himself as passably _normal_ as possible. He found a pair of jeans buried in his trunk and threw them on, along with a faded t-shirt with a band name on it that he was fairly certain used to belong to Alice (the details were hazy), and rooted around the closet until he found a pair of discarded trainers he was pretty sure he'd had since secondary school. 

And then he waited. 8:00 came and went. 8:15. 8:30.

At 9:30 he realized that Seb wasn't showing up. He'd never been planning on showing up at all.

His arms itched. His arms hadn't itched in over a year, not since that stint in rehab, but tonight, glaring out across the playing fields, he suddenly wanted to hop on his bike and go find the nearest townie and demand a fix.

But that wouldn't do.

That would be so boring, so plebeian, so pedestrian. Some drama would suit him much better.

So he took two long swills from the bottle of vodka he and Seb kept stashed under Sherlock's bed, grabbed a torch, and set off across the playing fields, fire in his stomach.

It wasn't hard to find the location of the "secret" bonfire. A trail curved away from the playing fields just past the equipment sheds, and the sound of laughter and drunken mirth echoing through the trees were hard to mistake for anything else. Sherlock's feet felt steady on the path despite the blurred edges of his vision, buzzing slightly from the alcohol. As he approached the bonfire through the silhouettes of the surrounding trees, he heard Seb's voice rising above the rest.

"So you ARE cheating on Fiona!" Seb's voice was slightly slurred and obnoxiously loud. Obviously intoxicated.

"Shuddup, there's no way you could know that for sure. Unless you've been listening to HIM again." Drew's voice is defiant.

"I only listen to him 'cause he's right."

"Don't know what you see in that freak. You do realize he's basically girl-repellent, right? They see you sitting with him at lunch and aren't going to come near you with a ten-foot pole."

"He's good to have around."

"For what? He give a good blowie or sumthin'? God knows he looks like a fag."

"God, no, Jesus. Wouldn't let the freak touch me if he paid for it. He lets me copy his homework. You know how it is."

"Suppose. But next time you see him, tell him to keep his fairy mouth shut about my extracurricular activities. Word gets back to Fiona and we'll have to teach him a lesson."

Sherlock's feet seemed to have taken root. For all the molten anger pulsing in his veins mere moments ago, it seemed to have been replaced with ice. He realized he hadn't grabbed a coat on his way out the door. The forest was cold.

He didn't stick around. He pivoted on his heel and ran back towards the dormitory, arms pumping, chest heaving, his heart in his throat. He reached the safety of his room and slammed the door behind him, then leaned against it and sank the the floor.

He didn't turn on the light. He didn't move. Three hours later, he heard the unmistakable sound of Seb's drunken footfalls in the hallway, followed by rapping on his door.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, you there?" Seb implored in an exaggerated whisper. "Open up."

"Go away."

"C'mon, it's me. Sorry I stood you up, I can explain. Just let me in."

"Go. Away."

"Please, just this once. I'll make it up to you. Next time we're in the city, I'll take you out to dinner. Somewhere real nice. We'll get a hotel room and have ourselves a nice time."

"I don't _need_ an incentive."

"Then what the FUCK are you waiting for?" The sound of Seb's fist slamming into the door made Sherlock flinch.

"Last warning, Sebastian. Go. Away."

Footsteps in the hall, fading out. He was alone again.

Blinking, Sherlock comes back to himself. That was so long ago, and far away. He'd been so young, so stupid. And John...John was different.

But Sherlock is still awake and gazing out the window when, at 8am sharp, a van pulls up in front of 221B. And he can't stop himself from skipping every other step as he charges down the stairs to greet John.

Mrs. Hudson has agreed to take Rosie for the day, and they get the portable playpen set up in her living room before taking on the task of unloading the van.

They make quick work assembling the crib in the nursery, along with the matching white dresser and changing table and rocking chair ("Is all this strictly _necessary_?" asks Sherlock in dismay. "I heard in Finland they just put their children in boxes. Is that not good?"). They hang the mobile and the pictures on the walls, and a new pair of gauzy lace curtains that somehow make the room feel even brighter. 

Nursery complete, they move onto John's belongings. It's a short list, and all of it familiar: his favorite mug, a few books, an egg timer, an art print of the first patent for a stethoscope, a decorative oven mitt and ceramic biscuit jar featuring the logo of the Cross Keys Inn, one fake plant, a box of DVDs, a bottle opener, and his laptop.

"Is that all?" Sherlock inquires as he pulls the laptop out from the bottom of the last box.

"Realized I didn't have much use for any of the rest of it," says John with a shrug. "Seems I've got pretty much everything I need here already."

The last items they bring up are a suitcase and duffel bag full of clothes. Sherlock shyly ushers John into his-- _their_ \-- room and shows him the drawer he's emptied out in the dresser (downsizing his sock index to one drawer instead of two had been a sacrifice, but surely a noble one) and the half of the closet that's now been vacated (he'll undoubtedly regret binning his policeman and sanitation worker disguises, but desperate times call for desperate measures). John smiles softly and kisses him, then unzips his bags and starts to unpack.

Despite their early start, it's almost sundown by the time John is settled in. Mrs. Hudson brings up some of her famous shepherd's pie, and they gather around the tiny table in the kitchen together, helping themselves to heaping spoonfuls and laughing as Rosie makes a mess of her vegetable puree. 

"Oh, her eyes are closing, poor dear, it's time to put her down. Should I put her back in her car seat?" Mrs. Hudson fusses.

"Nah. Now we have something better." With a wink and a smile, John picks up Rosie and gently ushers Mrs. Hudson to the staircase in the hall, and guides her up to the nursery, Sherlock following close behind.

Mrs. Hudson stops dead in her tracks, taking in the scene before her. She is quiet for a long, long time. Finally, Sherlock speaks.

"Well? What do you think?"

Mrs. Hudson turns to him, and he's surprised to see her face is covered in tears. She pulls him in for for a hug that seems to last forever. When she finally pulls away, she doesn't say anything. She simply turns and gives John a kiss on the cheek, and makes her exit.

John flicks the baby monitor on and they descend back downstairs to the sitting room. Wordlessly, John disappears briefly into the bedroom and re-emerges a moment later, looking surprisingly hesitant considering how well the day had gone.

He approaches Sherlock, and hands him two photographs.

Once is from the day of the wedding. It's of John and Mary on the dance floor. John is gazing at her with a look of adoration in his eyes, and Mary is _glowing_ , radiant and joyful. The other is a posed picture from the day of Rosie's christening; John and Mary are front and center, holding Rosie aloft. Mrs. Hudson and Molly beam beatifically to the left. On the right, Sherlock is scowling down at Rosie, but upon closer inspection, his lip is quirked into the hint of a smile.

"I...I wasn't sure where these should go. If we...if we want them out, or maybe somewhere more tucked away..."

Sherlock takes them both and sets them on the mantle, front and center.

"I think right here will do."

John grins. 

"This calls for a celebration. Wine?" Sherlock suggests, and John nods. Sherlock busies himself in the kitchen opening a bottle of cab and pouring two glasses, then joins John on the sitting room sofa. It's blissfully, startlingly quiet.

Their eyes meet. Something unspoken passes between them.

"Sod the wine. Bedroom?"

"Oh God, yes."

The wine is quickly abandoned on the coffee table.

It's so familiar and so new at the same time. In all of their previous encounters, from that eternal lifetime ago, the attraction between them had burned hot and fast, a consuming blaze that crackled beneath the surface of their skin, making the world blistering and surreal, over as quickly as it had begun in wordless release. But tonight it's a slow simmer that gradually reaches a boil, all soft kisses and warm caresses and careful, deliberate embraces.

John reaches for the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, and begins to carefully work his way down them. He pushes the shirt to the floor, and wraps his arms around Sherlock again.

John freezes. 

His hands move slowly, hesitantly across the expanse of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock can't watch. He closes his eyes, but he feels John pull away and turn him around. He hears the intake of John's breath.

"Sherlock," John's voice is unsteady. "What happened to your back?"

Sherlock swallows. He can't open his eyes and look behind him, not yet, can't stand to see whatever expression is undoubtedly crossing John's face.

But there's no more hiding now. No more shame. The time for all that has come and gone, and it nearly cost them both everything.

So Sherlock speaks. His voice is low but steady.

"I was infiltrating a terror cell in Serbia, an offshoot of Moriarty's organization. I was captured, and they...they didn't take kindly to my presence."

There's a long silence. He knows John is giving him time to continue, but Sherlock has said all he wants to say. He waits, barely breathing, feeling stripped and exposed in the oppressive silence of the bedroom.

The next thing he knows, John is pressing a series of slow, sensual kisses across his shoulder blades--the area where the scars are the worst. The sensation is unlike anything Sherlock has ever felt before--dulled by the thick scar tissue but somehow ten times more sensual. God, no one has touched him in _so long_ and now it's _John_ and he's doing _this_ , touching him _there_ , at the source of such a painful secret...

Sherlock can't hold back the whimper that escapes him.

John doesn't hold back. He kisses his way across every mottled inch of mangled skin, his arms wrapped around Sherlock to caress his chest as he moves his way down his back. At some point (Sherlock is not entirely sure when), John divests him of his trousers and pants and urges him forward onto the bed, onto his hands and knees.

Without hesitation, John climbs onto the bed after him, and proceeds to kiss a long, slow line down Sherlock's spine. And then he keeps going.

It takes a moment for Sherlock's brain to register precisely what's happening when John parts his cheeks and puts his tongue _there_. But even once he's had a chance to process it, his brain shows no interest in coming back online. Sherlock utters a cry more animal than human, and John doubles down on his ministrations, pushing his tongue further inside with a moan that is, by any measure, criminally obscene.

Sherlock is past the point of no return. John is thrusting his tongue with single-minded focus, and Sherlock can feel his body relaxing to allow him further inside. At some point John must have grabbed the lube from the bedside table, because the next thing Sherlock knows, John's two fingers deep in him, slick and sure, his wicked tongue still providing a supplemental stretch that's keeping Sherlock on the brink of ecstasy.

Finally, John pulls back and laves more kisses onto Sherlock's back.

"I can't believe I'm asking you this right now, but have you got a condom? There weren't any in the drawer."

Sherlock's brain stutters. Finally, he manages to shake himself out of it.

"No, no, you don't need one, go ahead. Want you. Go on."

"Sherlock, you were using needles. We're not taking chances with this."

Sherlock's lizard brain finally retreats, and his hard drive comes back online. The threat of not having John Watson's cock in him _right the fuck now_ is enough to incentivize his intellect into taking back over.

"They ran a full panel on me when I was in the hospital after Culverton Smith."

He glances back over his shoulder. John's still two-fingers deep in him, but looking unconvinced.

"For fuck's sake, Smith was a right bastard, but I doubt he'd stoop to the level of faking the results of my blood panel."

John sighs and shakes his head. "I suppose you have a point."

And with that, he unceremoniously pulls Sherlock upright until his back is flush against John's chest, bent legs splayed outside of John's thighs, and lowers Sherlock slowly onto his cock.

It's a new position for them, and it lights Sherlock up from inside like nothing he's experienced before. The angle presses John's cock against his prostate _just so_ , and he's nearly paralyzed with the heated perfection of it. Despite having his back to John, it feels achingly intimate as John presses wet, open-mouthed kisses up his neck, stopping to suck marks every few inches as he thrusts up into him. John's arms wrap around Sherlock's chest securely, grounding him, pulling him into the moment.

He's sure he could have come from that, God, he could have died in that moment and not complained, but then John brings his left hand down and wraps it around Sherlock's cock. His hand is slick with lube from prepping Sherlock, and the sheer heat of it feels electrifying. Sherlock's overstimulated body can't decide whether to thrust up into John's fist or back onto his cock, and he outright _keens_ as he oscillates back and forth, chasing his pleasure.

John is issuing a long, low groan, open-mouthed with his tongue resting against Sherlock's top vertebrae, meeting Sherlock with sharp thrusts that send electric shocks up his spine.

Then with one final flick of his wrist, John firmly runs his hand over the head of Sherlock's cock and simultaneously sinks his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, right over the deepest scar that traverses his entire back. Sherlock comes.

It's all hazy after that. Distantly he feels John holding him upright, pistoning into him, and then the familiar blooming warmth of John's release. He vaguely remembers John returning from the loo with some wet flannels and running them over Sherlock's sweat-slick body, trailing them with reverent kisses.

At some point, John climbs back into bed. 

Sherlock isn't tired. It's dark, but he's relieved to see the dim light streaming into the room reflecting back at him in John's eyes-- that means John's not tired, either.

Finally, John reaches out and grasps Sherlock's hand. For a moment, they simply lie quietly in the dark, face-to-face. John speaks first. His voice is soft and low, barely a whisper.

"What were you doing in Serbia?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and grasps John's hand a little tighter. His throat feels like it's closing up, and he struggles to swallow. He doesn't want to answer, he doesn't want to spoil tonight with all of this, just when they'd been so happy...

_In saving my life, she conferred a value on it._

The time for silence has passed. Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"The day that I...fell, Moriarty had three snipers. One for Mrs. Hudson. One for Lestrade. And one for you..."

From there, the words fall out as if of their own volition. He tells his story of the Fall and the years afterwards, of his quest to dismantle Moriarty's web once and for all. He tells of the suffering he experienced as he fought Moriarty's omnipresent evil at every turn. He tells of his time in Serbia, the torture he endured, and his extradition at Mycroft's behest. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, there is nothing left to tell.

He opens his eyes. Even in the dim light, he can see that John's face is streaked with tears. He's surprised to find his own face is damp, too--he doesn't remember starting to cry, but now that he's started, he feels no urge to stop any time soon.

John reaches forward and tenderly wipes away the tears.

"Okay," John murmurs. "Okay."

He pulls Sherlock in close and holds him tight. They don't speak any more after that. Instead, they fall asleep exhausted and wrung out, tangled in each others' arms.

Things are different after that night. Of course, resuming the physical element of their relationship altered things profoundly, but something else had shifted, too. There's an easiness between them that Sherlock has never felt before, not even if those few blissful days in Cornwall they'd shared right before Moriarty returned with his great game and blew it all to hell. 

Sherlock feels more at peace than he can ever recall being. He works cases, but he also sleeps, and eats. He and John bicker and fuck, but they also laugh and make love.  
Rosie is a marvel beyond all measure, and Sherlock can spend hours staring at her, observing her, making her giggle and watching her mind expand and grow. He delights in knowing that he's a part of all that, that he and John are creating something so beautiful. Up until that point, he was sure that he was unaware of beauty, but now he knows its definition, and it is the look on Rosie's face as she stares up at them in wonder. Sometimes he can't help but believe he knows exactly how she feels.

Of course, not all days are sunshine and rainbows and fairy dust. There are hard days too, days where they struggle to maintain the balance between who they were and who they'd become, and the push and pull feels like too much.

It's after one such day that Sherlock finds himself dead asleep on the sitting room sofa. He'd been awake for 56 hours straight solving the case of a murderous ventriloquist. He'd wrapped up the case at 6am, ensured Dimmock got the perp in cuffs, and returned to 221B triumphant. Sherlock was looking forward to a decent meal and 14 straight hours of sleep, as was his habit after binging on nothing but adrenaline and nicotine patches for three days straight.

His triumph was short-lived, however, when he walked in to door to find an irate John, lashing out at him about how he'd forgotten John had agreed to take the double shift at the surgery that day and Mrs. H. was out of town and had he _honestly forgotten he was in charge of Rosie today_ and Sherlock insisted _No, no, of course not, it was all under control_ and John handed over the baby and rushed out the door, leaving an exhausted, sleep-deprived Sherlock in charge of the tiny creature that usually brought him so much joy, but of course today somehow sensed his desperation and had doubled down on her fussiness in protest. She wouldn't eat, spit up twice, and wailed non-stop when he tried to put her down for a nap.

By 6:00 that evening, Sherlock was at his wits' end. At a loss for what else to do, he put on an old jazz record and laid down on the couch, Rosie on his chest. Finally, she seemed to relax, and her eyes lolled closed.

Sherlock didn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knows, John's shaking his shoulder.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Hrmph? I'm up. I'm up." He tries to shake off the tendrils of sleep still pulling at the edges of his consciousness.

"Long day?"

"You have no idea. What time is it? What day is it?"

"It's 9:00pm on Tuesday. I met Greg for pints after work today, remember?"

"Right, right, 'course."

"How was Rosie?"

"Fine. No, no, that's a lie. She was horrid."

John laughs aloud. "No, really, don't sugar-coat it for my sake."

Sherlock smiles back reluctantly, and looks down to where Rosie rests on his chest, dozing peacefully.

"Want me to put her down?" John offers.

"No, I'll take care of it." Sherlock shifts slowly to stand and make is way upstairs to the nursery.

He places Rosie in her cradle. She shifts and scrunches up her eyes as if she's about to cry, so Sherlock reaches out and lets her wrap her fingers around his pinky.

Quietly, he starts to sing. It's an old lullaby, one his mother used to sing. It makes him feel safe.

_I see the moon, the moon sees me_  
_shining through the leaves of the old oak tree_  
_Oh, let the light that shines on me_  
_shine on the one I love._

_Over the mountain, over the sea,_  
_back where my heart is longing to be_  
_Oh, let the light that shines on me_  
_shine on the one I love._

Rosie begins to doze. As he gazes down at her, it occurs to him suddenly that perhaps Mary, in all her wisdom, didn't get it completely right.

Maybe, in the end, it wasn't all about the legend, the adventures. Of course, he couldn't live without the Work-- the thrill of the chase, blood pumping through his veins--that was his lifeblood, his _raison d'être._

But it's about so much more than that. Who he is, who John is... it _mattered_. True, he's a junkie who solves crimes to get high. And sure, John is a soldier who never came home from war. But Sherlock is also a high-functioning sociopath who, somehow, against all odds, found a family born out of tragedy and grown in hope. John is a widower who endured unimaginable grief yet found it within himself to trust again, even when he had every reason not to. And yes, they're a refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted, rising to the occasion whenever the game is on.

But game on or not, life goes on. And the true stuff of it lies in the _in-between_ , the moments between the acts of heroism and daring that would find their way into the the papers to be recounted through the ages. They were so much more than how history would remember them.

The value was not always in the crescendo, but the rest.

A life was built in the in-betweens.

He returns downstairs to find John rummaging through the fridge. He smiles back at Sherlock over his shoulder.

"Dinner?"

"Starving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being MASSIVE. Probably because I love writing from Sherlock's POV, and it's breaking my heart to wrap this series up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then we came to the end.

III. John

John returns home from the pub and makes his way upstairs. Upon entering the sitting room, he can't help but bark out a laugh.

Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa, dead asleep, with Rosie snuggled firmly against his chest. Sherlock looks more frazzled that John has ever seen him--he's still wearing the clothes he had on when he arrived back at the flat that morning after solving the case of the murderous ventriloquist (John had been too rushed to get the details on his way out the door), but he'd apparently thrown on his dressing gown over his dress shirt and slacks, and John could see distinct traces of spit-up on all three. Sherlock's hair is frizzy and wild, his fastidious grooming apparently having gone out the window in lieu of keeping Rosie entertained. Upon closer inspection, he is drooling slightly.

And then there is Rosie. Pink, perfect, and in an angelic slumber that in no way suggested the level of mayhem having transpired that Sherlock's appearance implies.

John's heart swells in his chest. 

He approaches Sherlock and gives his shoulder a shake.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Hrmph?" Sherlock startles back to wakefulness so suddenly that John almost feels guilty. "I'm up! I'm up." 

"Long day?" John asks, ruffling Sherlock's hair fondly.

"You have no idea. What time is it? What day is it?"

"It's 9:00pm on Tuesday. I met Greg for pints after work today, remember?"

"Right, right, 'course."

"How was Rosie?"

"Fine. No, no, that's a lie. She was horrid." Sherlock scowls, but John catches the faint hint of a grin turning the edge of his lips upwards.

"No, really, don't sugar-coat it for my sake." 

Sherlock gives him a begrudging smile.

On instinct, John reaches for Rosie. "Want me to put her down?" 

"No, I'll take care of it." Sherlock stands and makes his way upstairs. Moments later, John hears the rumbling notes of Sherlock's baritone voice drifting down from the nursery, singing a lullaby.

John is starving, but he decides to wait for Sherlock to get back downstairs so they can discuss dinner. He plops down in his chair, and for lack of something better to do, he pulls out the book that Greg had given him at the pub. _London A to Z._ John was completely flummoxed by Greg's gesture. He'd given John such a pointed _look_ as he handed over the book, as though it were somehow imbibed with meaning, but for all John could tell, it was just a normal travel guide. He casually flips through the pages, trying to decipher what Greg was getting at.

The book falls open to a page in the D's. John's heart stops.

There, tucked within the pages, is a photo of John and Sherlock. Together. In bed.

He remembers taking the photo. It had been after that kidnapping case in Leavesden, the one where Sherlock caught the kidnapper by deducing what caused the purplish hue in the polaroid photographs the kidnapper sent as ransom notes. (John realizes he never got around to writing that one up in his blog--why was that? Oh _right,_ the next morning he'd complained to Sherlock that he tasted like an ashtray, which led to Sherlock proclaiming he was quitting cold-turkey. 24 hours later, he was harpooning a pig and throwing a snit of epic proportions. Then Henry Knight showed up, and they'd dashed off to Baskerville.)

But the night Sherlock solved the polaroid kidnapper case, they'd fucked for 5 hours straight. It was still early on in their physical relationship, and the sex was new and exciting and every aspect of it was ecstasy beyond compare. At that time, their sporadic sexual encounters that _weren't_ after a case were fast and frenzied one-offs. But post-case sex was a marathon. Sherlock was goddamn _insatiable_ after a case, and John was so high on the adrenaline rush that they created a feedback loop of unquenchable desire that burned hot and bright and then faded as quickly as it had begun.

So the morning after the polaroid-kidnapper-post-case-sex-marathon, John had taken a picture of them in post-coital bliss, and used it as blackmail to get Sherlock out of bed to go eat dumplings with him. He'd hidden it inside this book, and forgotten about it entirely.

And Lestrade had borrowed the book. Christ, Lestrade had borrowed the book _over a year ago._ Which meant that this whole time, this whole past year, every time he'd been with them, he'd _known,_ he'd bloody _known_ and he _hadn't said a damn thing._

Though...what should he have said? "Oy John, I borrowed a book from Sherlock that happened to contain photographic evidence that the two of you were shagging"? "Oy John, I was honoured to be at your wedding to Mary, but it's kind of fucked up to have your male ex-lover as your best man"? "Oy John, you sure you're not gay? Because this seems a little gay"?

So...Lestrade knew. Mrs. Hudson knew (even in the very beginning, years ago, John got the impression from her sly smiles and quick winks that the walls were not as soundproof as he'd always hoped, and he supposed the new nursery really pushed everything past the point of plausible deniability). And no doubt Mycroft knew (in retrospect, John was now fairly certain Mycroft had deduced it from the beginning, from the first damn time he'd laid hands on Sherlock. It was surely no coincidence, the timing of Mycroft showing up at the flat with the update on Irene Adler and her capture by the terror cell in Karachi. It had been a test; even with John's limited deductive abilities, he'd at least been able to piece that together). And Mary had known. And had loved him in spite of it--or maybe, because of it.

So perhaps it was time to...time to...what, come out? Go public?

And how the hell would that work? Hold a press conference and say that he and Sherlock were...hell, what were they, exactly?

John realizes he's spent so long defining everything he _wasn't,_ everything they _weren't,_ that he's never stopped to figure out exactly what they _were._

He thinks back to the very beginning of it all. That first night, at Angelo's:

"I'm not his date!" No, he wasn't Sherlock's date. The idea of them being "on a date" seemed about as plausible as the two of them being on an intergalactic space mission.

To Mrs. Hudson:

"Sherlock is _not_ my boyfriend." No, he wasn't John's boyfriend. He had never been, and God knows he wasn't now. To picture introducing Sherlock as his boyfriend was laughable. He chuckles imagining it: "Yes, this is the man who's died for me twice, and gone into exile for me twice, who has saved my life more times than I can count. He's also my boyfriend." It was too simplistic, too immature to describe the connection they shared, after all they'd been through.

Then he recalls the case with The Woman. Even now, he thinks of that case as a tipping point in his relationship with Sherlock, when the sexual tension was ratcheted up so high he felt he could have sliced it with a knife. He reflects on that moment in the warehouse:

"I'm not actually gay." No, he wasn't gay. Not then, before he and Sherlock had entered a physical relationship. And not now, even as they kiss and have sex and sleep side-by-side. John isn't gay. He's not attracted to men. There had been none before Sherlock, and there had been none besides him. John loved women--he was exclusively attracted to women, and had never considered himself anything other than straight. Until. Until. That first moment he and Sherlock locked eyes, he had _wanted_ him, with a strange and consuming urgency that felt foreign and clumsy and unattainable. And then that first night they kissed, seeing Sherlock in the throes of passion, unencumbered and unfiltered and pure--it was like nothing John had ever experienced. He had never known desire like that.

And then he thinks about later, after they'd started getting each other off, but when everything between them was still unsaid and shrouded in secrecy. He remembers that day at the Cross Keys Inn in Baskerville, the words the Inn's owner had said to him, laced with meaning as he apologized for lack of a double room, and John had responded:

"We're not--"

And stopped short. _We're not._ But at that point they _were,_ they were _something,_ but not what the Inn's owner thought, that John and Sherlock were _together_ and _attached_ and _partners._ They certainly were not that. But they weren't _nothing,_ either, they were hovering in some purgatory between _here_ and _there,_ all unspoken meaning and awkward pauses and willful masculine stoicism.

And even later...even after Cornwall (the one time shortly before the Fall that he'd felt he and Sherlock were finally toeing the line of finally becoming something, something honest, something real), he still couldn't bring himself to say it.

And then Ella, always Ella, "The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it. Say it now."

_"I can't."_

All these years and a lifetime later, John stares down at the photograph in his hand, choking on the weight of unspoken words.

In the photograph, a younger John is lying on his back in bed, hair splayed across the pillow, looking into the camera and grinning, his arm extended to take the picture. Sherlock is curled up beside him, staring up at him, a look in his eyes that John can't mistake for anything other than what it is.

It's love. 

Christ, it always has been.

He and Sherlock are in love.

He had loved Sherlock then, years ago, in the moment this picture was taken, but it was all tangled up in a web of denial and doubt and self-loathing and fear that formed a snarled knot he didn't have the means to untangle. 

And maybe that was the reason for it all, for the suffering and the anguish and the unfathomable pain; that at the end of it, he was finally forced to be man enough to see it for what it truly was: a love that pulled them together like a magnetic force, inescapable and sure. 

John should have said it, that morning of the photograph, beside Sherlock in bed. 

No, he should have said it that night in Cornwall--

Hell, should have said it the first time they had sex--

The first time they kissed--

Sod it, fuck social mores, he should have said it the night after their very first case, over greasy dumplings at the Chinese place down the street, giggling over their fortune cookies and high on adrenaline. 

From the day they'd met, his course had been set. It wasn't all for nothing, then--all they'd done, all they'd tried to do. They'd stumbled and fallen and gotten back up. They'd somehow, against all odds, made it here, to this night, a moment of stillness in between the tragedy and heartache and weight of all the words they'd never said.

They'd been given a second chance, a new start, a fresh beginning, a mercy so benevolent that John couldn't fathom how he would every feel worthy of all of this.

So many had died. So many had suffered. And yet here they were. And would always be.

Slowly, John stands and makes his way over to the mantle. Sitting atop it are two photographs: of John and Mary, the day of their wedding, and of Rosie and her Godparents, the day of her christening. John props the polaroid of him and Sherlock up beside them.

The people he loves most in this world. 

He knows then there's only one thing left to do.

He pauses to listen, and hears that Sherlock is still singing. Rosie must be fighting sleep, then--par for the course these days.

He makes his way into the kitchen and rummages through the fridge, suddenly realizing that between the double shift at the surgery and pints with Greg after work, he hasn't had a thing to eat since noon.

Sherlock's footsteps sound on the stairs, and moments later he's in the kitchen.

"Dinner?" John inquires.

Sherlock smiles blearily, still clearly exhausted from the case combined with the fussy baby. "Starving."

John turns back to the fridge. "I have ingredients for spring pea risotto." It's Sherlock's absolute favourite.

Sherlock comes up behind him. "Doesn't risotto take forever? It's already 9:30, we can just have leftovers."

But John shakes his head. "No. I want to make this for you tonight. You can nap on the sofa until it's done."

Sherlock tips his head and quirks his eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Positive."

Two hours later, the smell of risotto has infused the flat, but John still feels nervous and wired when he thinks about what he's preparing to do. He's so lost in his own thoughts that he jumps a mile when Sherlock's arms suddenly wrap around him from behind as he stands over the stove.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You scared the crap out of me."

Sherlock chuckles and presses his lips against the side of John's neck. "Sorry. Smells so good I guess my body decided it's better than sleep, which at this point is saying something."

John grins. "I just have a little more broth left to add. Should be ready in 10 minutes."

"Mmmm, I think it's best if I taste it now, just to make sure you haven't bollocksed it up." Lightning quick, he snatches the spoon from John and licks it.

"Oy, I'm using that!" John grabs for the spoon but Sherlock holds it aloft, and catches John in a kiss.

John pulls away and finds himself caught up in the moment, unable to wait any longer. He doesn't hesitate. He simply looks Sherlock in the eye and says, "I love you."

He half expects Sherlock to short-circuit and for this to be a repeat of the Best Man incident. But instead, Sherlock reaches over him, grabs another heaping spoonful of risotto, and says, "I love you, too." He stuffs the risotto in his mouth.

"You do?" John didn't expect him to say it so...casually.

Sherlock finishes chewing. "Well, isn't it obvious, John? Do keep up. I sometimes forget how oblivious you must be. Allow me to explain. See here?" He grasps John's hand and places it around his wrist, directing John's fingers to his pulse point. "Feel how my pulse increases when you put your arm around me?" He drapes John's other arm around his back. "Now, note how my pupils dilate when you're in my proximity." He leans in close, their eyes lock, and _God,_ it's still electric, even after all these years. "Do you see the way I part my lips every time I catch you looking at them? And if that's not enough evidence, there are a few other clues I could help you deduce..." And with that, he presses his groin flush against John, pulling him close, and John can feel the hint of his arousal against his hip.

"I know you're attracted to me, Sherlock. But that's not what I said."

"I know what you meant," says Sherlock. "And I said it back." And with that, he leans in and closes the gap between them, and then it's all lips and tongues and hands and heat and--

"Oh, bloody HELL, the risotto!"

And then it's all smoke alarms and oven mitts and eating burnt risotto straight out of the pan, leaning against the kitchen counter at 11:45 on a Tuesday night, laughing as Sherlock does an animated impression of the ventriloquist murderer from his latest case, and brushing feet against feet and hip against hip and shoulder against shoulder as smiles are given and returned.

And later, it would be bed and sex and an easy kind of comfort on the borderline of sleep as they lie basking in the afterglow. And John would remember how he felt after their very first time, all those years ago, lying beside Sherlock, and how everything between them had seemed so fleeting, so temporary. 

But they've come so far, to be here in this moment. Now, everything is different. He feels at peace, knowing simply that at least there would be a tomorrow, and he would love Sherlock then, too. And the day after that, and the day after that. Until his last day, and all the days in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the entire TJLC fandom. I have to confess, for a while I honestly thought that the writers might take the actual show in the direction of this series--that it was all just misdirection, and in the end, Sherlock and John wouldn't "get together" because it would be revealed that they'd been together on and off the entire time.
> 
> But alas.
> 
> I hope that this series can serve as some comfort for now...and inspiration for the future.


End file.
